The Pledge (2 page)

i

81 years later

223 years after the revolution of sovereigns

I gritted my teeth as Mr. Grayson’s voice grew louder and louder, until there was no mistaking that he meant for the people in the congested street to hear him, despite the fact that he knew full well they couldn’t understand a single word he spoke.

It was the same thing every day. I was forced to listen to his shameless bigotry simply because his shop stood across the crowded marketplace from my parents’ restaurant. He didn’t bother disguising his contempt for the refugees that flooded our city, bringing with them their “poverty and disease.”

And he did it right in front of them, smiling falsely to their faces while they filed past his shop, displaying wares he hoped to sell them. Of course, they had no real way of knowing—other than his scornful tone—that the shopkeeper mocked
and ridiculed them since he spoke in Parshon, and they were obviously
not
vendors. They were the impoverished, sharing the downcast gazes of the Serving class. Yet even as the merchant called them names they couldn’t understand, they never glanced up. It wasn’t permitted.

Only when he finally addressed them in the universal language of Englaise did their eyes lift to meet his. “I have many fine fabrics,” he boasted in an effort to draw their attention, and hopefully their wallets. “Silks and wools of the finest quality.” And beneath his breath, but still loud enough to be heard, “And remnants and dirty scrap pieces as well.”

I glanced across the swell of tired faces crowding the market at this hour and saw Aron looking back at me. I narrowed my eyes to a glare, a wicked smile touching the corners of my lips.
Your father’s an ass,
I mouthed.

Even though he couldn’t hear what I said, he understood my meaning and grinned back at me, shocks of sand-colored hair standing up all over his head.
I know,
he mouthed back, a deep dimple digging its way through his left cheek. His warm golden eyes sparkled.

My mother poked her elbow into my ribs. “I saw that, young lady. Watch your language.”

I sighed, turning away from Aron. “Don’t worry, I
always
watch my language.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you, especially in front of your sister. You’re better than that.”

I stalked inside, taking shelter from the glare of the morning sun. My little sister sat at one of the empty tables, her legs
swinging back and forth as she bobbed her head and pretended to feed the threadbare doll perched on the table in front of her.

“First of all, she didn’t hear it,” I protested. “No one did. And, apparently, I’m not better than that.” I raised my eyebrows as my mom went back to wiping down the tables. “Besides, he
is
an ass.”

“Charlaina Hart!”
My mom’s voice—and her words—shifted to the throaty mutterings of Parshon, just as they always did when she lost her patience with me. She reached out and snapped me on the leg with her towel.
“She’s four; she’s not hard of hearing!”
She threw a glance toward my sister, whose silver-blond hair gleamed in the sunlight pouring in through the windows.

My little sister never even looked up; she was accustomed to my mouth.

“Maybe when Angelina’s old enough for school, she’ll learn better manners than you have.”

I bristled against my mother’s words. I hated when she said things like that; we both knew Angelina wouldn’t be going to school. Unless she found her voice soon, she wouldn’t be permitted to attend.

But instead of arguing, I shrugged stiffly. “Like you said, she’s only four,” I answered in Englaise.

“Just get out of here before you’re late. And don’t forget: we need you to work after school, so don’t go home.”
She said this as if it were unusual. I worked every day after school.
“Oh, and make sure Aron walks with you; there are a lot of new people in the city, and I’d feel better if the two of you stayed together.”

I stuffed my schoolbooks into my worn satchel before dropping down in front of Angelina as she silently played with her dolly. I kissed her on her cheek, secretly slipping a piece of candy into her already sticky palm. “Don’t tell Mommy,” I whispered close to her ear, wisps of her hair tickling my nose, “or I won’t be able to sneak you any more. Okay?”

My sister nodded at me, her blue eyes clear and wide and trusting, but she didn’t say anything. She never said anything.

My mother stopped me before I could go.
“Charlaina, you have your Passport, don’t you?”
It was an unnecessary question, but one she asked daily, every time I left her sight.

I tugged at the leather strap around my neck, revealing the ID card tucked within my shirt. The plastic coating was as warm and familiar to me as my own skin.

Then I winked at Angelina, reminding her one last time that we had a secret to keep, before I hurried out the door and into the congested streets.

I raised my hand above my head, waving to Aron as I passed his father’s shop, signaling that he should meet me in our usual spot: the plaza on the other side of the marketplace.

I pressed my way through the bodies, remembering a time—before the threat of a new revolution—when the streets were not so crowded, when the marketplace was simply a place for commerce, filled with the smells of smoked meats and leather and soaps and oils. Those smells were still here, but now they were mingled with the scent of unwashed bodies and desperation, as the market became a refuge for the country’s unwanted, those poor souls of the Serving class who’d been forced from their homes when trade lines had been cut off
by the rebel forces. When those they served could no longer afford to keep them.

They flocked to our city for the promise of food and water and medical care.

Yet we could scarcely house them.

The monotone voice coming from the loudspeakers above our heads was so familiar I might not have noticed it if the timing weren’t so uncanny: “ALL UNREGISTERED IMMIGRANTS MUST REPORT TO CAPITOL HALL.”

I clutched the strap of my bag and kept my head low as I pushed ahead.

When I finally emerged from the stream of bodies, I saw Aron already standing in front of the fountain in the plaza, waiting for me. For him it was always a race.

“Whatever,” I muttered, unable to keep the grin from my lips as I handed him my book bag. “I refuse to say it.”

He took my heavy load without complaint, beaming back at me. “Fine, Charlie, I’ll say it: I win.” Then he reached into his own bag, which was slung across his shoulder. Behind us, the water from the fountain trickled musically. “Here,” he said, handing me a fold of soft black fabric. “I brought you something. It’s silk.”

As my fingers closed around the smooth material, I gasped. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before.
Silk,
I repeated in my head. I knew the word but had never actually touched the fabric before. I squeezed it in my hand, rubbing it with my fingertips, admiring the way it was almost sheer and the way the sun reflected back from it. Then I turned to Aron, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s too much.” I tried to give it back to him.

He shoved my hand away, scoffing, “Please. My dad was going to throw it in the scrap bin. You’re small enough; you can use the pieces to make a new dress or something.”

I glanced down at my scuffed black boots and the dull gray cotton dress I wore, plain and loose-fitting like a sack. I tried to imagine what this fabric would feel like pressed against my skin: like water, I thought, cool and slippery.

When Brooklynn arrived, she dropped her bag at Aron’s feet. As usual, she didn’t say “Good morning” or “Would you please?” but Aron reached for her bag anyway.

Unlike his father, there wasn’t an unkind bone in Aron’s body. Or maybe “stupid” was the word I sought to describe the elder Grayson. Or rude. Or lazy. It didn’t matter; any of those unflattering traits that his father possessed had apparently bypassed his son.

“What? You didn’t bring me anything?” She jutted her full lower lip in a pout, and her dark eyes flashed enviously as she eyed the silk in my hands.

“Sorry, Brook, my dad would notice if I snagged too much at once. Maybe next time.”

“Yeah, right, Midget. You say that now, but next time it’ll be for Charlie too.”

I smiled at Brook’s nickname for Aron. He was taller than Brooklynn now, taller than both of us, yet she still insisted on calling him Midget.

I slipped the delicate fabric into my bag with great care, wondering what, exactly, I would make from it, already anxious to put needle and thread to it.

Brook led the way as we moved around the perimeter
of the plaza, where the crowds were already gathering. As always, we took the long way, avoiding the central square. I’d like to think that it was Brook’s or even Aron’s idea—or that either of them was as disturbed by the things that happened in the square as I was—but I doubted that was true. I knew it bothered me more.

From somewhere overhead, another message crackled: “ALL SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY MUST BE REPORTED TO YOUR NEAREST PATROL STATION.”

“Passports,” Aron announced solemnly as we approached a new checkpoint at the base of the giant archway that led to the city streets. He reached beneath his shirt, just as Brook and I did, pulling out our IDs.

There were more and more of the checkpoints lately, with new ones appearing overnight. This one was no different from most: four armed soldiers, two for each line—one for the men and one for the women and children. After the photo on each Passport was visually matched to the person wearing it, the identification card was scanned through a portable electronic device.

The checkpoints didn’t matter, really; they weren’t meant for us. We weren’t the revolutionaries they sought to keep from moving freely about the city. To Brook and Aron and me, they were simply another security measure, one of the consequences of the war brewing within the borders of our own country.

And if you asked Brooklynn, the checkpoints were a bonus, new opportunities to practice her flirting techniques.

Brook and I stood in our line, remaining silent as we awaited our turn. While our Passports were being scanned into the
system and we waited to be cleared, I stood back and watched as Brook batted her thick black lashes at the young soldier holding her card.

He glanced down at the scanner, and then back to her again, and the corner of his mouth rose subtly, almost unnoticeably. Brook stepped closer than she needed to when the light on the portable computer flashed green, clearing her.

“Thank you,” she purred as she held his gaze, her voice low and husky. She slipped the Passport down the front of her shirt, making sure he watched it fall.

The IDs weren’t anything new to us. They’d been issued for as far back as anyone could remember. But it was only in the last few years that we’d been forced to start wearing them in order to be “tracked,” so that the queen and her officials knew where we were at all times. Just another reminder that the revolutionaries were tightening their stranglehold on the crown.

I’d once seen someone taken into custody at one of the checkpoints, a woman who had tried to slip through using another person’s Passport. She’d passed the visual inspection, but when the card was scanned, the little light on the machine flashed red instead of green. The Passport had been reported stolen.

The queen had no tolerance for crime. Theft was treated just as severely as treason or murder would be: All were punishable by death.

“Charlie!” Aron’s voice dragged me out of my own thoughts. I hurried after them, not wanting to be late for school, as I tucked my Passport back inside the front of my dress and ran
to catch up. As I reached them, a loud cheer went up behind us—coming from the crowded square we’d just left behind.

None of us flinched or even faltered in our steps. Not one of us so much as blinked to acknowledge that we’d even heard the sound, not when we were so near the guards at the checkpoint who were always watching.

I thought briefly of the woman I’d seen that day, the one with the stolen Passport, and I wondered what it had been like for her, standing on the gallows in the square surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. People who jeered at her for the crime she’d committed. I wondered if her family had come to watch, if they’d seen the trapdoor drop open beneath her feet. If they’d closed their eyes when the rope had snapped her neck, if they’d wept while her feet swayed lifelessly beneath her.

Then the voice from the loudspeaker reminded us: “A DILIGENT CITIZEN IS A HAPPY CITIZEN.”

Inside, my heart ached.

“Did you hear that the villages along the southern borders are all under siege?” Brooklynn asked once we were past the soldiers at the checkpoint and on the less-crowded city streets, away from the marketplace.

I rolled my eyes at Aron. We already knew that towns along the border were under attack; they’d been under attack for months. Everyone knew. That was part of the reason our city was suddenly so overpopulated by refugees. Almost everyone had taken in stray family members and their servants.